Z Children (Book 1): Awakening (8 page)

My eyes grew
wide as the body on the ground began to move. Of its own volition, my foot
pushed harder down on the gas pedal.
What the hell is going on? What the hell
happened to these kids?
Thought after though raced through my brain

Drive. Just
drive.
I didn’t know where I was going at first, but I certainly had the car to get
there fast.

I looked over at
Marty. He was in the floorboards crying, his face cradled in his small hands. I
wanted to yell at him. I’d told him to buckle up and he hadn’t listened.
But he looked so pitiful, tight in the fetal position. I was surprised he had
lasted this long.  By the looks of it, he wasn’t coming out of the
emotional breakdown any time soon. I felt robbed of my own desire to curl up in
a corner and cry. I had to be an adult. Freaking unfair.

Not really
having a plan, I did the one thing I could think of, the one thing that made sense
to me- go to the police. Maybe that was a dumb move; maybe the whole world had
gone to crap and sense was a sentiment better left dead. Something about a
badge, a gun, something about authority; I’d cling to those things as long as I
could.

I was only about
3 miles from the Sheriff’s department on the outskirt of town. I made a right
turn and pointed the nose of the T-bird in that direction. It may have been my
imagination, but the car seemed to enjoy going fast. So I obliged, pushing the
speedometer well past the posted speed limit.

As the station
came into sight, I noticed a school van occupied one of the closest parking
spots. It seemed odd next to the few marked cars. I drove slowly the rest of
the short distance and compressed the brakes, allowing the vehicle to idle at
the base of the station entrance stairs. I hesitated; why did I think this
place would be any different?
Because this is the law; the law should be a
constant. It should keep people safe.
Telling myself that coming here was a
smart move and not total dumb-assery, I shifted into park.

When I’d slowed
down, Marty had uncurled himself and crawled into the passenger’s seat. His
face still wet with tears, he stared out the window. “The school bus,” he
gulped, “Izzy was supposed to be here today. Maybe if we’d gotten to school on
time, maybe if I hadn’t thrown up everywhere…” his voice was small; I could
barely hear him.

“It’s not your
fault, Marty. I don’t think she would have been any safer here.”

He turned to me
then, his face fierce. “She was going to be here, here with the police. She
would have been safe.”

Not wanting to
argue with him, I just swallowed and nodded. There was no sense trying to
explain to him that his sister was sick, that no amount of badges and bullets
would have changed the outcome of the morning. I looked away from the boy and
studied our surroundings.

 There was
no movement- not outside the building and not behind the window glass inside
the building. Suddenly, I was scared, really scared. I didn’t want to go in
there. I had to though. I needed help. I had questions. Straightening my
shoulders and grimacing, I unlocked the doors and reached for the door handle.
As my fingers closed around the steel, my brain took me back to a boastful and
drunk Kyle. He’d been a Marine aviator and he was proud of his glory days in
the service. He’d also been proud of his .38, courtesy of his time in Vietnam.

Kyle had never
been without it… I didn’t even know if he had a carry license. Once, he’d
walked into Baby Bliss with it stuck in his belt, slurring his words and
talking about the ‘VC bastards’ and how he’d put a bullet in the brains of
anyone who shot down his plane. I’d been tempted to call the cops on him, but
Kyle was mostly harmless.

Praying for
something to go right, I opened the glove box. The knot in my stomach
unclenched slightly as my fingers wrapped around the handgun.

I wasn’t real
familiar with guns. Dad had wanted to teach me how to shoot when I was 16; I’d
obliged for a while, learning how to hunt quail with his old shotgun, but I was
more interested in my boyfriend at the time- who happened to be obsessed with
classic cars. I’d learned a lot from that relationship. I mean, Gary was a
jackass, but I could recognize the roar of a 396 big block in a ’69 Nova SS with
my eyes closed.

I held the gun
in my hand, feeling its weight. I knew enough from avid movie watching to be
able to check and see if the .38 was loaded, which it was. Little blessings. In
theory, all I had to do was squeeze the trigger and big-bada-boom, threat
neutralized.
Threat neutralized. Gun in hand, I was already sounding more
like a bad ass.
.

As quietly and
cautiously as I could- which was probably ridiculous considering how loud the
engine was- I got out of the car. It dawned on me, as I was about to shut the
door, that I had no idea how much gas the car had and it probably wasn’t smart
to leave it running. Leaning back into the T-bird, I checked the gauge- a
little more than half a tank. I sighed. If only Kyle had topped off the tank
before hitting the liquor store to top off his own tank. I turned the key and
the strong thrum of the engine died out, leaving us in eerie quiet. Sometimes
silence was so much more unsettling than a chaos of sound.

Leaning inside
the vehicle, I saw Marty’s hand reach for his door handle.

“No, Buddy. You
stay here.”

“I don’t want to
be alone.”

His words
knocked me in the gut. He was scared; more scared than me. But I didn’t know
what I was walking in to. I needed him to be here and safe… not a distraction
that I needed to protect. I could barely protect myself.

“You’re safer
here. I promise. Lock the doors when I leave. Do not unlock the car until I get
back.” I closed the door and waited for the boy to hit the switch. He
hesitated, but finally took his fingers off the metal handle and hit the auto
locks. The look the boy gave me was at once terrified and shaming. His eyes
said ‘how can you leave me here alone.’ I looked away from him quickly. Marty
was safer than I was now. Being out of the T-bird made me feel very alone and
scared. The gun in my hand was small comfort and I’d left the key in the
ignition… just in case we needed a quick getaway. Let’s hope the boy would be
swift to unlock the doors. I’d be shit-out-of-luck if he froze in fear and I
was stranded.

Slowly I scanned
my surroundings again, like a rabbit looking for a fox, looking for predatory
danger. I could feel the cold droplets of sweat running down my blouse and
between my breasts. Sometimes I hated being a larger gal; more sweat, and more
folds of fat to collect the dampness.  That’s how my mind worked- I had
never been so scared in my life, yet all I could think about was my weight and
how I’d have a better chance at survival if I could run faster than the
monsters.
Really wish I’d taken my mom up on that 5k run last summer. Would
have been good practice.

I made my way up
the stairs, jumping at every sound. I almost shot a squirrel as it darted out
of a poorly trimmed bush. That would have been a waste of ammo, but my nerves
were frayed. The front door of the building was ajar, as if someone had left in
a rush. That didn’t bode well. It was a surprisingly cool day with a light
breeze. Maybe I was overreacting, maybe the officers inside were just enjoying
a bit of fresh air. A girl can hope. I carefully peeked inside the office, gun
supported by both my hands and leading the way.

Everything
seemed to be in order.

Then I saw the
blood. So much blood.

Officer Murray
lay on his back, still gripping his shotgun in his right hand. The barrel of
the gun also lay against the floor, as if it were the deceased officer’s
shadow, dark charcoal against khaki linoleum. An uneasy repose of victim and
weapon.
He must have held it beneath his chin; he’d taken his own life.
The top rear of Murray’s head was missing- an exploded mess of brain matter.
Bone shard was splattered a distance away on the floor and adjacent wall.
Don’t
throw up, Sherry. Don’t throw up.
Forcing myself not to vomit hurt my
insides and the gun in my own hand suddenly felt useless. I’d sold the Murrays
clothing for all of their kids. They were a lovely family. It wasn’t fair. Doug
was a good person. What would Anne do without him? How would she take care of
her kids? He’d shot himself… why would he kill himself?

If he couldn’t
survive, what chance in hell did I have?

Then I saw the
bite wounds along both of his forearms and I agreed with him.

Better dead than
a monster.

I fought back
the tears now; they were like Niagara Falls, pushing against the back of my
eyes with immeasurable force, gathering in my sinus cavities and threatening to
overflow. To Doug’s left were the remains of at least half a dozen young
children and what, I assumed, had at one time been their teacher. Each child
had a large, oozing hole in their head… some had other wounds. But I knew from
experience that even a forceful hit from a moving vehicle didn’t keep these…
monsters down for long. A bullet to the brain? Was that the answer? I couldn’t
believe what I was having to think about. Killing a kid.

There was a
special place in hell for me.

It was obvious
that this school outing had gone terribly wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong.

Trying not to
throw up my protein shake, I checked that the .38 was loaded one more time and tucked
it into the waist of my too-tight skirt. I pulled the shotgun out of Murray’s
hand and couldn’t completely repress the bile. It momentarily filled my mouth
with acid before I quickly swallowed it back down. It burned my throat,
reminded me that I was alive.

The shotgun was
a lot like my Dad’s, but this one had a shorter barrel and seemed to hold more
rounds. Quickly, I checked the chamber. I didn’t need movie learning for this;
I remembered that much from my Dad’s lessons, God bless him. Satisfied it was
loaded, I looked around, trying to keep my gaze averted from the carnage on the
floor. 

The jail cells
were empty and the weapons locker was secured by an impressive-looking padlock.
 Moving further from Murray’s body, I saw a hint of red near the front leg
of a large desk. Shotgun shells. An entire box half-emptied across the floor
looked like salvation. I gathered the ammunition one-by-one and placed them
neatly back into the box. When I was done, my eyes were drawn towards a flash
of silver. The name plate on the smooth, wooden surface of the desk had caught
a ray of sunshine. Lt. Doug Murray. Murray’s desk.

The shiny black
phone near the large desk calendar- the white paper of it now colored with
drying blood- caught my eye. For some reason, I got the urgent desire to check
my cell messages. I’d give anything to hear Susan’s voice and know she was
okay. Quickly I dialed my cell phone number and punched in the access code
followed by the pound sign. I crossed my fingers in hope.
Please, please,
please.
I mentally urged Susan to have called me. Which made no sense… she
either had or she hadn’t. No amount of pleading in the present would change the
past.

Then I heard her
voice.

Like a prayer in
a dark abyss. I heard my best friend’s voice.

Listening to the
recording. I felt my face transform into a wide uncontrollable grin. We had a
destination, we had a plan. Next stop, Corpus Christi.
Thank you, Susan.
Thank you.
I realized beneath the happiness that I didn’t remember which
Marina the
Nancy-Grace
was stored at. Susan had told me, more than once.
God, I hated my memory sometimes. She’d said to call her… I could call her
right now. I was such an idiot; why hadn’t I just called her to begin with? As
I was about to hang up and dial, the only other saved message on my phone began
to play, and then I couldn’t hang up. I had to listen.

The message was
an old one. From my last birthday.
“Hey, Sweetheart. Happy birthday. Your
Dad and I have bingo later, so don’t try calling us back after 5. Hope to hear
from you.” The line was quiet for a moment, but I knew the message wasn’t
finished. I’d never erased it; I couldn’t bring myself to since Mom had died a
month after leaving it. “I wish that girl would grow up and find a good boy. I
want grandbabies. I’m tired of Edith Wengler and her million pictures. I swear,
every Thursday at bingo she corners me. I probably know more about her
granddaughter’s potty habits than my own.” I could hear the murmur of my dad in
the background now telling Mom to cut it out, that I’d get married when I was
good and ready. “I just want a grandchild before I die, Bert. Is that too much
to ask? Oh, shoot. I forgot to press the damn button again. I hate this
newfangled phone.”

I didn’t realize
that I was crying until the message finally ended. Guess Niagara can only be
held at bay so long before it breaks the barrier. Drying my eyes with the back
of my shirt sleeve, I refocused, redialed. Susan’s phone went straight to
voicemail. It was either dead or off or maybe the phone services were wonky.
There had to be millions of people trying to make calls at the exact same
moment, desperate to hear a loved one’s voice. Knowing Susan, maybe she’d
forgotten her charger… she was always forgetting to keep her phone charged. Not
hearing Susan answer the phone almost made the tears start anew, but I fought
them. I knew where she was; I would get to her- her and the twins and Mr.
Fields.